


like a baptism

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Post-War, Sparring as foreplay, mild blood kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24906298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: “I want to hear you say it,” Sylvain murmurs, halfway entranced. When he glances up at Dimitri’s eye—eyes, now, one milky and pale while the other cuts straight through his heart—he feels them both start, a jerky kind of awareness that threads Sylvain like a needle. “Please.”Dimitri licks his lips, and there’s blood on his tongue. His lips are red with it. “Ask nicely,” he rasps, tilting his head back against the dirt. Sylvain’s eyes are drawn to the strong curve of his throat, the fluttering pulse of Dimitri’s jugular. “And I might.”Or: Sylvain gets lucky, but only because he is so terribly transparent.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 232





	like a baptism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Froggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggie/gifts).



Dimitri has been jittering out of his skin for days: twitchy fingers and uncoordinated elbows, all chicken-scratch on his notes during diplomacy meetings. Sylvain watches him from across the table, head low and face carefully neutral, all Margrave and nothing more. His presence at the table is a courtesy, an acknowledgement that his territory is most directly affected by this treaty, but everyone in attendance knows that Dimitri is the true power. Sylvain may speak more Srengi than Dimitri, but Sylvain is no more king than the rugged diplomat who sits sidelong across the table.

Dimitri must feel that pressure, as he always does. Peace with Duscur has been in the talks for months, _years_ , with Dedue at the helm. Sreng isn’t an afterthought, not quite, but it is secondary, and until this point, Sylvain has been allowed to lead the negotiations. It is thanks to him, Dimitri says, that they have reached this point at all: a bunch of sour men ’round a table older than their grandfathers.

Sylvain knows his presence isn’t necessary, not now, not so deep into these discussions, but Dimitri had wanted him here—had looked at him and said, “I would have you present, to see the fruits of your labor,” as though Sylvain had done anything more than learn the language and spend each summer abroad, caked in the wet mud of monsoon season. Years of work, of sacrifice, pale before him; without a single scar on his body, a single missing limb or martyred finger, Sylvain has brought the elected chief of Sreng to Fodlan.

They sit, now, the five of them: Dimitri, in full king’s regalia, a crown on his wheat-gold hair; Chief Ainmire, a veritable beast of a man, all dark hair and bright, keen eyes, with a thatch of hair peeking above his collar; two of Ainmire’s guards, one dark and one fair, broad-shouldered and sour-faced; and Sylvain, seated half-across from Dimitri, with his lips pursed and his hair pushed messily out of his face. They’ve been talking for hours, Dimitri half in Srengi and Ainmire half in Fodlan, and Sylvain is the only translator between them.

“I think,” ventures Sylvain, “that we have reached an impasse.”

Dimitri glances sharply towards him, shadows stark beneath his eyes. He doesn’t dare voice his question, not in front of a foreign delegation, but Sylvain sees it written in the harsh lines of his face.

Sylvain turns to Ainmire, bowing his head in deference. “What my King means to say,” he says in Srengi, with a brief glance at Dimitri, “is that we would be happy to meet your terms, so long as there is an adjustment period.”

Dimitri understands enough to nod. “Yes,” he says, stilted and thickly accented. Foreign language was never his strength. “One year.”

Ainmire frowns, ice-blue eyes piercing as they search Sylvain’s face. _For treachery, no doubt_ , Sylvain thinks. “Six months,” the chief counters, gruff and guttural. The guard to his right glances sharply at his lord, pale eyebrows raised. He says nothing, however, and so Sylvain says:

“Nine.” His voice is clear, faintly accented, tongue thick in the bottom of his mouth. He’s been preparing for this since he was eight. “Nine months to bolster our crops and establish a trade route, and you have our word.”

Chief Ainmire looks no less unhappy, but the lines around his eyes do soften. “Your word means nothing to me,” he says, blunt. “You must sign.”

Sylvain nods. “And we will. Once we agree.”

A long moment passes, with Dimitri’s eye boring straight into Sylvain’s. _Trust me_ , Sylvain thinks, desperately. The two of them had discussed this at length, over the course of several weeks, but Sylvain knows Dimitri must be uncomfortable without translation. They’ve both taken a risk.

“Do you agree, Lion King?” asks Ainmire, now turned toward Dimitri. “Do you agree with your pet’s terms?”

Sylvain bristles at the epithet, but lets it slide. In this, at least, he will be Dimitri’s lackey.

Slowly, Dimitri nods. “Yes,” he says, voice deep and sure. Sylvain thrills at the reverberation of it, the bristle of unshaved stubble at his jaw and upper lip. Dimitri is every bit a king in this moment, and Sylvain is reminded suddenly of his desire to _serve_. “He speaks true.”

Ainmire appears to think about this, head cocked to the side with a single eyebrow raised. Finally, after a glance between his two silent guards, he says, “Very well. Have the treaty drawn.”

Ainmire might miss Dimitri’s sharp inhale, but Sylvain doesn’t. “Yes,” says Dimitri, self-assured. The golden crown on his head glistens as he nods. “Of course. We shall sign at dawn.”

Sylvain shifts uncomfortably in his seat when Ainmire turns to him. “At dawn,” he echoes, in Srengi. “It has been a pleasure.”

* * *

It’s all Sylvain can do to convince Dimitri to go to _bed_ , so caught up in the final dredges of the treaty that he hardly hears Sylvain slip inside his room. The fire is low where it sings in the hearth, a single candle lit to Dimitri’s right as he scratches stiffly at the parchment on his desk. Lines and lines, full paragraphs, are crossed out, and Sylvain can’t tell if he’s worried or pleased that Dimitri has allowed him so close without acknowledgement.

“Dimitri,” he says, low and quiet. He keeps his hands folded at his sides, visible but unthreatening. “It’s nearly four in the morning.”

Dimitri grunts, shoulders twitching as he wets his quill. He still hasn’t taken to the self-inking pens of Almyra, or even the hybrid quills from Abyss. Dimitri is—traditional, Sylvain thinks, but if he’s being honest, he suspects it has something to do with the fact that Dimitri so often _breaks_ his quills.

“Dimitri,” Sylvain tries again, earnest. He makes sure his footfalls are loud, audible against the plush carpeting. “It’s time to pass off the treaty, alright? Your poor scribe has been waiting in the library for hours.”

The quill stills against the parchment, Dimitri’s fingers white-knuckled in their grip. Slowly, Dimitri looks at him, shadows under his eyes and eyepatch long discarded. The milky white of Dimitri’s right eye stares through him, half-lidded and scarred, and Sylvain acknowledges it with a nod of his head before shifting to Dimitri’s good side.

“It needs to be perfect,” says Dimitri, his voice a low growl. It’s not personal, Sylvain knows; Dimitri is tired and overworked, and there are easily four cups of half-finished black coffee on the floor. Discarded parchment litters the desk, several of them sporting coffee and tea stains, and there are a suspect few that Sylvain suspects saw the bursting of a quill.

“I’m sure it already is, Dimitri.” Sylvain is careful not to overstep, this new— _thing_ between them still so delicate, so new. The fact that Sylvain is allowed in Dimitri’s quarters after dark is progress in itself, and he doesn’t wish to look that in the mouth. However: “It would be much worse if you were late to the signing. Your Highness.”

Dimitri scoffs, rustling the papers and the sweat-slick down of his quill. “I had not intended to sleep,” he admits, and there are equal parts of Sylvain that are proud and also wanting to reach across the desk and throttle his king.

He manages to keep his voice level, a feat in the face of his own sleep deprivation. “If that’s the case,” he says, “I’ll need to send for Mercie to hide the bags under your eyes.”

Sylvain means it as a jest, and, thankfully, Dimitri takes it as one. A laugh escapes him in the form of a sharp sigh. “I doubt even she could make me look presentable at this point,” he says. He glances up at Sylvain with exhaustion clear in the lines of his face, the oily drape of his blond hair. “What if they change their minds?”

“They won’t,” says Sylvain, sounding more sure than he is. That’s his job, now: to be his king’s confidence. “They’re as tired as we are. We struck a deal, and they’ll sign. Goddess help me, Dimitri, I swear it.”

“Hm.” Dimitri considers this, head cocked to the side as he fidgets with his quill. Finally he says, “You speak much better Srengi than I do,” as though this is a point in Sylvain’s favor, and—maybe it is, Sylvain isn’t sure.

“A perk of being raised in Gautier,” Sylvain side-steps, willing himself not to bristle. “So—trust me, then. That they’ll sign. We’re all ready for this peace, Dimitri.”

Dimitri sets aside the quill with a single, long sigh, head hung as though defeated. He needs a bath, a change of clothes, a good night’s sleep; if Sylvain is clever enough, he might get two of those things. Dawn is set to arrive within three hours, and if they’re going to sign this treaty—the _official_ treaty, penned on crisp, clean parchment, bleached and bright—Dimitri needs to look his best.

“I have no choice but to trust you,” says Dimitri, and Sylvain takes his victories where he can. “Please—send for the scribe. You’re right, I’ve kept him waiting too long.”

“No need.” Sylvain steps toward the desk with a hand outstretched, gesturing for the stack of papers between Dimitri’s hands. He notes the ink stains on Dimitri’s fingertips, bled beneath the blunt edge of his nails, and knows he’ll have to prioritize a bath. “We’ll drop it by the library on our way to the baths.”

That gets Dimitri’s attention, sharp and surprised. “The baths?”

“You said yourself you weren’t planning on sleeping,” Sylvain reminds him. “We’ll just have to clean you up in other ways. Besides—” He nods at Dimitri’s hands. “You can’t sign a treaty while looking like a schoolboy, can you?”

Color lights on Dimitri’s face, subtle and pink. “I...hardly noticed.”

Sylvain shrugs. “No worries,” he says, straightening papers as he speaks. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us, your Highness. You’re just lucky you’ve got me looking out for you.” He winks, gathering the treaty draft close to his chest. Then, with a grand gesture towards the door: “Shall we?”

* * *

They sign the treaty at dawn, and when they do, Dimitri’s hands are bare and clean. Sylvain stands behind him, hands clasped at the small of his back, soothing circles against the jittering of his thumbs.

This part is all ceremony: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, First of His Name, Savior King of Fodlan, dressed in royal silks and ceremonial armor, stands to the left of Chief Ainmire of Sreng, a man whom Sylvain has known and feared since childhood, on the open balcony of Fhirdiad’s northernmost tower. After they both have signed, Dimitri turns to the crowd that has gathered—mostly curious onlookers, but witnesses nonetheless—and says, booming, “My fellow countrymen, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Fodlan’s newest and most esteemed ally, Chief Ainmire of Sreng.”

The crowd erupts, because of course it does; Sylvain knows their loyalty knows no bounds, when it comes to their beloved Savior King. Still, when Dimitri grasps Ainmire’s hand and lifts it above their heads—a strong grip, visible even to the straggling edges of the crowd—Sylvain can’t deny his own shiver of satisfaction, gooseflesh pimpling on his arms and legs. Dimitri looks good, like this: crowned and glorious, _regal_ , the spitting image of Loog himself in gleaming white armor and his velvet cape.

Another shiver builds at the nape of Sylvain’s neck, more dangerous this time. There’s an undeniable heat in his gut, a curling kind of pressure, and it mixes with the hollow ache in his chest. Sylvain has denied this part of himself for years, since the false report of Dimitri’s death and his subsequent return, and—it’s easier, now, to shove those feelings down, but his throat still aches and his tongue still swells and his eyes still feel terribly, awfully hot.

“Congratulations, your Highness,” Sylvain says, once Dimitri turns from the crowd. “I knew you could do it.”

Dimitri’s smile is blinding, face flushed with victory and relief and _pride_. His voice is a reverent whisper when he says, “Sylvain, we’ve done it,” and there’s a shaking in Sylvain’s knees that’s new.

“We did. I mean— _you_ did, your Highness.” Calling him Dimitri now— _now_ , in front of the entire kingdom, in front of their new Srengi allies—feels too real, too raw, even as the words _your Highness_ stick in the swelling of his throat.

“Nonsense,” says Dimitri, clapping Sylvain on the back as they exit the balcony. “You did as much as I did, Sylvain.” There’s an eagerness to his voice, so genuine and true, and it makes Sylvain’s skin crawl to hear it. “And—now we can rest, I suppose.”

Dimitri’s still smiling at him, pink lips and blue eyes against the glittering of his crown. Sylvain clears his throat and says, not without effort, “You’ll need that more than I will, I think.” The laugh he forces is hollow but true enough, with every nerve in his body overwhelmed by the warmth of Dimitri’s fingers through his doublet. “You’ve still got to get your beauty sleep.”

Dimitri hums, and even when they round the corner—even when the Srengi delegation has fallen away, even when they’ve stepped over the threshold to the private, eastern wing—he keeps his arm around Sylvain’s shoulders. It’s easy, jovial, and Sylvain hates himself for leaning into it.

“You would know more about that than I would, I think,” Dimitri says, thoughtful. “Even still, you’re not wrong. I’d be lying if I said sleep didn’t sound absolutely divine.”

They’re nearing the guest quarters, where Sylvain has so haphazardly set up shop for the extent of Sreng’s visit. He’s due back in Gautier by the end of the month, but that still gives him another couple of weeks to enjoy Fhirdiad’s hospitality. “Let me leave you here, then,” Sylvain says, stopping in front of his door. He’ll take a bath first, he thinks, and then—maybe a nap. He’s had about as much sleep as Dimitri. “I’m sure you’ll find some time for me, later.”

“For you?” Dimitri smiles, broad. “Always.”

* * *

Sylvain waits for two days for a knock at his door. It comes at last just after he’s returned from the stables, freshly out of the baths and nowhere near dressed. But--it’s not Dimitri at his door, which is the only thing that saves Sylvain from jumping out of his skin.

“Yes?” he calls. He’s cranky, sunburnt from his earlier horseback ride; the cool water had helped, but his skin still itches. “I’m busy.”

“His Highness has requested that you meet him in the training yard,” says a young voice, clear and spry. One of Dimitri’s little orphans, then. “He said to tell you that he wants a rematch.”

Sylvain huffs a laugh, even as his skin prickles hot against the coarse rub of the towel. Shaking his hair out, he says, “Yeah, alright, tell him I’ll be there soon.” He’ll let Dimitri figure out what _soon_ means.

There’s a pause in which Sylvain imagines the young messenger nods, before realizing that Sylvain can’t see him. The child says, “Yes, sir—Margrave, sir,” and Sylvain listens as little footsteps echo down the hallway.

He estimates he’s got about thirty minutes before Dimitri gets impatient. He’d better hurry, then.

* * *

Sylvain arrives, clean and appropriately half-dressed, within the hour. The sun is setting as he walks through the castle, and by the time he reaches the training grounds, only slivers of light reach the cool grass below his feet. Dimitri’s personal training yard is tucked away within the older parts of the palace, situated between his sauna and another, more discreet entrance to the hunting grounds. Sylvain only knows to find him here because it’s after hours, almost eight, and he hasn’t seen Dimitri since they’d signed the treaty two days beforehand.

Dimitri is already sweating by the time he arrives, wielding an impressive training lance: it’s long, and sharp, and weighted at the end in the same way Areadbhar is. Sylvain leans heedless against the doorway, admiring Dimitri for a beat too long, and, really, it’s his fault when the lance spears itself in the wooden frame next to his head.

“You’re slow,” says Dimitri, as though that explains the _spear next to Sylvain’s head_. “I’m glad I asked you to spar with me. You’re getting complacent.” Despite his words, Dimitri greets him with a wink and a smile, face flushed with adrenaline and shiny with sweat. He pulls the lance from the wall with little effort, the smallest grunt and a pop of his shoulder, before returning to the center of the ring. “So. Are we using weapons, this time, or do you think you can beat me with your bare hands?”

Sylvain feels his own body surge with adrenaline, the hair on his arms prickling as his fingers twitch for his lance. He’d won the same way, two months ago; it had been a fluke, but he’d still managed to pin Dimitri to the floor of the training yard, and dirt and dust and sweat on their brows. They’d used weapons, then, but this time—

“I’ll take those odds,” Sylvain says, rolling his neck as he steps into the ring. He doesn’t miss the way Dimitri’s face lights up, the way his eyebrows race to his hairline and his shoulders perk. “No weapons.”

The grin that splits Dimitri’s face is slow, almost feral. The points of his teeth are still sharp from years of wild living, and they catch on the swell of his lower lip. Dimitri nods, tossing his lance to the side with a roll of his shoulders. “No magic, either,” he says. “I’d like to keep my eyebrows, please.”

Sylvain snorts. “No promises, your Highness.”

Dimitri’s smile grows broader, brighter. Slyer. “What have I told you, Sylvain? In this ring—”

“I’m to call you _Dimitri_ ,” Sylvain finishes, lifting his shirt over his head and throwing it aside. “Yeah. Maybe you can make that message stick this time, hm?”

Dimitri falls into position easily, all flowing muscle and easy smile, and Sylvain can’t help the shiver that rides his spine from nape to tail. _This_ is Dimitri in his element: broad and honed, silver-faded scars drawing fierce tracks across his chest and arms and torso. The rest disappear beneath the hasty tie of his trousers, form-fitting and supple as a second skin, and there’s a moment when Sylvain’s mouth begins to water just _looking_ at them. They’re brown, beautifully tanned—soft kid leather that was cut perfectly to the shape of Dimitri’s body.

If Dimitri catches him staring, he doesn’t say anything. His knees are bent in an eager lunge, fists clenched loosely in front of him. With nothing left to distract him, Sylvain mirrors Dimitri’s stance, tearing his mind away from the unforgiving curve of Dimitri’s thighs.

“You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you,” says Dimitri, low and gruff. His eye is sharp, blue, tracking each movement of Sylvain’s hands, his elbows, the roll of his shoulders. For a moment, his gaze drops to Sylvain’s feet, the admonishment so close Sylvain can _taste_ it, but Dimitri lets it go. “No matter. You’ll have learned your lesson by the time we’re finished.”

There’s an underlying threat there, hot where it curls in the air between them, but Sylvain hardly has time to consider it before Dimitri’s on him.

While Dimitri may be the pinnacle of knighthood within the eyes of his subjects—loyal, strong, gentlemanly—he is nothing if not _dirty_ while fighting Sylvain. Sylvain blames himself, honestly, for years spent kicking Dimitri’s legs out from underneath him as kids; Dimitri had always been so eager, so earnest, so easy to trick. Dimitri had started to catch on at Garreg Mach, of course, tracking Sylvain’s movements with quick eyes and even quicker responses, but it had taken him until the end of the war to match Sylvain punch for punch.

Their styles are not so mismatched anymore.

Dimitri comes at Sylvain with quick feet and a quicker arm, aiming to unbalance him and send him crashing to the ground. He misses, of course, because while Dimitri is fast, Sylvain is _faster_ , with less muscle mass and more time spent balancing atop a horse. The punch still unsettles him, the way it whistles through the air, but that’s what his body needs to really thrill with the urgency of a fight.

Sylvain lets Dimitri play offence for long enough to skirt his way around the arena, carefully sidestepping and maneuvering (and ducking, once or twice) until his back is nearly against the wall. He’s not put up much of a fight, so he knows Dimitri senses _something_ , but Sylvain knows his weak spots, see, and—

“Oh, shit,” says Sylvain, moving to nurse the fresh bruise on his shoulder, and there’s a moment, a flicker of concern in Dimitri’s eyes, before Sylvain ducks to the side and sends a kick to the back of Dimitri’s right knee.

Dimitri doesn’t go down, not all the way, but he does buckle, one hand bracing for the wall. Sylvain’s halfway across the dirt yard by the time Dimitri has righted himself.

“Getting slow, your Highness,” Sylvain taunts, bouncing on the soles of his feet. He can feel it, now, in every part of his body—adrenaline that sings and burns, crackling beneath his skin. “You should have seen that one coming.”

“I did.” Dimitri’s voice is a growl as he stalks forward, hair loose from its tie and slick with sweat. The sound of it curls thick and warm in Sylvain’s gut, high already on the thrill of the fight. “If you think that was enough to—”

“Oh,” says Sylvain, dancing sweetly around Dimitri, “I didn’t think it was. Just trying to get you to liven up.”

Dimitri’s next blow connects, glancing off of Sylvain’s hip. “I am _quite_ lively already,” he says, and that is when the real fight begins.

Sylvain’s not trying to trick Dimitri now, not really. Instead, he tries his best to catch Dimitri’s fists and use that momentum against him. They’d decided early on—before the war, before even Garreg Mach—that they would avoid using crests during a sparring match, but even still, Dimitri’s was far more unpredictable than Sylvain’s, and there was always the threat of obliteration. The worst Dimitri had ever done was break a couple of Sylvain’s fingers, though, so Sylvain guesses it’s worth the risk.

It’s a small miracle that Dimitri’s crest doesn’t activate, with how hard Dimitri’s breathing—his hair is slicked back from his face with sweat and grime, hands dirty from his earlier brace against the wall and another, somewhat luckier blow from Sylvain that had sent him toppling forward into the ground. There’s dirt on Dimitri’s face from where he’s scrubbed at it, sweat stinging in his eye much like it does Sylvain’s, and he looks almost like _Dimitri_ , dirty and raw and heaving with barely contained strength.

Sylvain’s beginning to feel weak in the knees by the time Dimitri snarls, inches from his face, and rips off the eyepatch that’s slipped halfway down his nose. Sylvain knows he can’t see any better with it off, his right eye all but useless, but the plaster of wet fabric against the sunken scar of his eye must drive Dimitri mad.

Sylvain doesn’t intend to take advantage of Dimitri while he’s down, not like this—it feels wrong to cut him under the jaw while the pupil of his left eye rapidly adjusts to the shift—but that turns out to be his mistake, because clearly Dimitri had done it for a reason. He snarls and snaps and slams his forehead against Sylvain’s own, and Sylvain crumples with a startled yell.

“You _bastard_ —” There’s fire at his fingertips, flickering bright and hot enough to taste. Sylvain snuffs them with considerate effort, struggling to reign in his temper as it flares in the molten pit of his chest.

Dimitri _laughs_ , skipping back two paces and wiping his hands on his pants. Sylvain is momentarily distracted by the flex of his arms, his thighs, but there’s a buzzing in his skull that’s hard to ignore, and it’s that same righteous anger that brings him staggering to his feet.

“I’m surprised you haven’t yielded,” Dimitri teases, entirely too cocky. There’s a part of Sylvain that _burns_ to see him like this, light and unburdened and so much the man they’d hoped he would be. “Although, you know the only way to make me stop—”

In an entirely predictable and foolhardy move, Sylvain lunges forward with a snarl, hoping his speed is enough to make up for the fact that Dimitri knows exactly what he’s doing. To his surprise, his shoulder connects with the center of Dimitri’s chest with a sickening, fleshy _thunk_ , and they both go tumbling to the ground.

Dimitri doesn’t fall easy, but he does fall hard. Once he’s down, it’s a struggle to keep him there—Sylvain’s got both thighs bracketing the thrashing of his hips, riding the wild buck of them like the fit of an unbroken horse, and when he tries to get a hand over Dimitri’s snapping mouth, he finds teeth sunk into his palm. He hisses and shouts and elbows Dimitri across the face in his haste to pull back, and he’ll say sorry for that later, but he’s got both of Dimitri’s wrists clasped tight above his head by the time Dimitri’s eye clears.

“Yield,” Sylvain spits, not because he means to, but because his mouth is swollen with blood. When Dimitri struggles against his hold, Sylvain presses down harder, crueller. He ignores the thrill of Dimitri’s thrashing beneath him in favor of saying, again, “ _Yield_.”

There’s blood dripping from Dimitri’s nose, now, and as the high of the fight begins to wane, a small kernel of guilt springs deep within Sylvain’s chest. He’ll deal with it later. For now—

“Fine,” Dimitri says, voice nasal and thick. He can’t move his hands to wipe the blood from his face, still held tight above his head, and so it curves down the side of his cheek, the sharp cut of his jaw. Sylvain watches it with wild eyes, pupils blown, and he can’t tell, now, if it’s guilt or—or something else, just as iron-hot. Dimitri sniffs, and it does nothing to stem the flow. Sylvain swallows.

“I want to hear you say it,” he murmurs, halfway entranced. When he glances up at Dimitri’s eye— _eyes_ , now, one milky and pale while the other cuts straight through his heart—he feels them both start, a jerky kind of awareness that threads Sylvain like a needle. “Please.”

Dimitri licks his lips, and there’s blood on his tongue. His lips are red with it. “Ask nicely,” he rasps, tilting his head back against the dirt. Sylvain’s eyes are drawn to the strong curve of his throat, the fluttering pulse of Dimitri’s jugular. “And I might.”

“I—” _Curse_ Dimitri, Sylvain thinks, his mouth gone dry as bone. He’s slipping, here, with Dimitri arching lazily beneath him, all thick muscle and heat and the temptation that coils tighter and tighter between their bodies. Sylvain’s fingers tighten just barely around Dimitri’s wrists, and the muscle shifts in his grasp, undeniably powerful. He clears his throat. “I won’t ask again,” he says, hoarse where he means to growl. There’s a fluttering in his chest that he refuses to name. “ _Yield_ , Dimitri.”

The grin that splits Dimitri’s face is dangerous, slow and dark as molasses. “Ah,” he says, voice deep and wild and warning. “So I have won, after all.”

Sylvain’s hands slip from Dimitri’s wrists as though burned, the shame of being tricked and beaten and—and _here_ , still, pressed against the hard plane of Dimitri’s stomach, sweat cooling to rasping salt and grime. His eyes are wide where they bore into Dimitri’s, laughter coming a second too late to be genuine. There’s still blood on his face, riotous and cruel where it burns and burns and burns itself into Sylvain’s mind. He’s overplayed his hand, here, deluded into—into what? Into—

Dimitri snarls and flips them, a jolt and a shudder as Sylvain’s back connects heavily with the ground. Dimitri hovers over him, straddling one thigh and bending the other leg up, up, palm searing Sylvain through his trousers. He’s caught like this: left knee bent almost to his chest, twitching between the cage of Dimitri’s legs. Dimitri’s right knee is dangerously close to Sylvain’s groin, and goddess that should be terrifying, it _should_ , but there’s blood still on Dimitri’s face, slipping from his nose to his chin and down the slender curve of his neck, the crescent of his collarbone, and—

“Yield,” says Dimitri, every bit the king that he is. The force of the order rocks through Sylvain like thunder, burrowing deep and shivering into the cavern of Sylvain’s heaving chest.

Sylvain squirms, trying to look anywhere but at _him_ , at the sharp bite of his mouth, at his eyes nose jaw chin. The heat from before is dangerously close to kindling, a hissing in Sylvain’s ears that warns him. Dimitri’s knee is so _close_. “Fuck,” he says, fighting the urge to throw his head back and rut. Dimitri’s got him open like this, wild like this, every fantasy he’s hidden skin-deep and lower: nights spent palming himself through the dirtied groin of his armor, set up in a tent and scared sick of tomorrow, always tomorrow, always another battle, another field, another axe screaming towards Dimitri’s head.

Dimitri bends Sylvain’s leg harder, further, presses the weight of Sylvain’s thigh to his chest. “Yield to me,” he demands, and Sylvain is lost.

“I yield,” Sylvain gasps, blind to the pain in his leg. When Dimitri doesn’t let up, he snaps, “I said I _yield_ , Dimitri.” It’s a mistake to look at him, any part of him, but he does it anyway because he’s tired and he _wants_.

Dimitri hums, all at once tender where he squeezes Sylvain’s thigh. “I like the sound of that,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “Although I do wish—hm.” His gaze is hot as it drags down Sylvain’s body, prone and shivering. “Is this truly what it takes?” His hand, then—sliding from beneath Sylvain’s knee to the meat of his thigh, quaking against Dimitri’s fingers. Slowly, Dimitri hooks Sylvain’s knee over his own shoulder, eyes level and serious on Sylvain’s face.

“What are you—”

“I had thought, perhaps,” continues Dimitri, undeterred, “that you would come to me after the war.” His voice is steady, calm in its contemplation, but Sylvain catches a reed of something else that lingers below his words. “When you didn’t, I—well. I, of course, assumed that I had misunderstood you. I told myself, you know, that we were all exhausted, then, beaten by the tides of battle, and a single evening hardly meant devotion.”

Sylvain realizes too late what Dimitri is saying, mind reeling as Dimitri presses closer. He looks almost sad, brows knit together, all wide-eyed innocence that seems so at odds with the _king_ Dimitri had been mere moments ago. “Dimitri—”

“But then you did, in a way. I had always known you were passionate about Sreng, of course, but this time, you had a plan. And you were so _good_ at it, Sylvain. Truly, I—” Dimitri clears his throat. “It has been a year since we begun,” he says. “And I—I have grown. Fond. You kept checking on me, looking after me, showing up unannounced and—well. I had thought you might feel the same.”

Dimitri’s eyes are sharp where they study Sylvain’s face. “Was I wrong?” he whispers, and he’s so _close_. Sylvain’s body longs to arch into him, to bare itself, to yield. “I must know, Sylvain. Please, do not lie to me. Am I looking for something that isn’t there?”

“No,” Sylvain says, because he can’t stand it, because Dimitri’s always been a tease but now he _knows_ what he’s doing. “Fuck, Dimitri, I would never—”

Dimitri huffs and laugh, relieved. “Good,” he says, and settles back into himself. Sylvain watches the bob of his throat as he coughs, just once. “Then—may I?”

“May you...what?” Sylvain asks, because this isn’t _real_ , it can’t be. Dimitri’s body is pressed so close to his, the broad expanse of his chest almost level with Sylvain’s own.

Dimitri leans impossibly closer. “May I kiss you?”

_Fuck_. “Fuck.”

A laugh, low and true and almost shy. “Yes,” says Dimitri. “That, too.”

There’s a moment of silence before Sylvain realizes that Dimitri is still waiting for permission, face flushed red and so, so earnest. “Fuck,” Sylvain says again. “I mean—yeah, if you want to.”

Dimitri’s nose touches Sylvain’s, nuzzles against his cheek. It’s slick where rubs, still wet with blood and sweat, but Sylvain _whines_ , arches into it. His toes curl over Dimitri’s shoulder and he feels like he’s sixteen all over again. “Tell me you want this,” Dimitri murmurs, breath warm against Sylvain’s ear. “I need you to tell me.”

Sylvain’s heartbeat thunders in his ears, fast and hard. “Yes,” he breathes, because he _does_ , he does. “Yes, Dimitri.”

Dimitri kisses him.

It’s salt and sweat and spit, Dimitri’s swollen lower lip catching on each hard drag of Sylvain’s teeth. Sylvain feels like a shark to frenzy, thrilling in the taste of Dimitri’s blood against his tongue. It holds him down, centers him, a cresting realization that this is _happening_.

Sylvain’s legs may still be pinned by Dimitri’s body, but his hands are free, and it’s with more gentleness than he’d thought himself capable that he cups Dimitri’s face. Dimitri groans into his mouth, pitching forward, one hand fisting itself in Sylvain’s damp hair.

“ _Flames_ ,” Dimitri gasps, breaking for air. His mouth is filthy with spit, smeared and swollen with blood. It looks good, Sylvain thinks. “I—I should have done this sooner, I think.” His good eye is hazy, faraway as it stares at Sylvain’s mouth. A thumb follows it, tracing Sylvain’s lower lip before catching just inside his mouth, behind his lower teeth. “To think you want this, too, I…”

Sylvain closes his mouth and sucks, tongue flat against the pad of Dimitri’s thumb. Dimitri hisses but stops talking, which was the goal, and so: “You promised to fuck me,” Sylvain says around Dimitri’s thumb, floating somewhere between eager and nervous.

“Perhaps later,” Dimitri says. “If I’m being honest, I didn’t think this would work. Felix suggested it, but—”

Sylvain bucks beneath him, an awkward grind with one leg thrown over Dimitri’s shoulders, but one that connects. It’s slow, delicious even at the odd angle, and he groans when the jut of his own hard cock slips against Dimitri’s. “We can make it work,” he says. “Just—here.” He reaches for the leather ties at the front of Dimitri’s pants. “Take these off.”

Dimitri pulls back to help him, letting Sylvain’s leg slip from his shoulder as his fingers work nimbly at the ties. Sylvain’s mouth waters at the thought of Dimitri stripping out of them, peeling the supple leather from the hard flex of his legs. He’s sweaty, too, slick against the inside of his leggings—

Dimitri frees his cock with a groan and a sigh, head tipped back as he fists himself. He’s—fuck, but he’s huge, and Sylvain had _known_ that, but rumor and reality are often so different. “You’re fucking huge,” says Sylvain, almost angrily. “Holy shit, Dimitri, you’re. Flames. _Fuck_.” The cock that surges from between Dimitri’s legs is long and thick, wet at the head and flushed from base to tip. It’s—well, it’s comically large, actually, and Sylvain’s having a brief moment of, _oh, fuck, I can’t_ —“I can’t fit that thing inside of me.”

“Mm,” murmurs Dimitri, gaze hungry. The hand on his cock doesn’t falter as he says, “I think you could.”

Sylvain’s own cock jumps within the confines of his pants, already painfully hard and throbbing between his legs. “I,” he says, lightheaded. “Goddess, _yes_ , but not tonight. We’d need a lot more than sword oil.”

Dimitri considers this with a cock of his head, thighs flexing as he sits back. Sylvain’s eyes follow him as he moves, deep grooves of concentration between his brows. “How should I fuck you, then?” he rumbles, and Sylvain’s mouth waters as Dimitri’s cock drips a thick line of precome.

With a swallow, Sylvain manages, “My legs,” because the thought of Dimitri’s cock sliding thick and hot between the tender flesh of his thighs is enough to roll his eyes back. “I want you to fuck my legs.”

Dimitri growls, a hiss and a groan, and leans forward to bite at Sylvain’s lips. Sylvain’s hands fumble with the ties of his own pants, tugging them quickly from around his hips as Dimitri’s tongue licks slick and hot into his mouth. When Sylvain breaks the kiss to speak, Dimitri’s lips slide to his jaw, the lobe of his ear, the strong curve of his neck.

The stinging rasp of teeth makes Sylvain gasp, throat bared as he says, “I gotta get my pants off, come on,” because if this takes any longer than it already has, Sylvain might combust.

Dimitri pulls back to lift Sylvain’s hips with his own hands, callused fingers tugging roughly at Sylvain’s pants. Sylvain whines when his cock finally springs free, slapping against the hard ridge of his stomach. Dimitri sends his pants flying, landing halfway across the ring in a cloud of dust, before leaning back over to capture Sylvain’s mouth.

The first touch of their cocks is electric, similar almost to the time Felix had hit Sylvain with an errant burst of Thoron. It’s a haphazard slide without anything guiding them, but Dimitri’s cock is thick between them, iron-hot and branding Sylvain’s flesh just as deep.

“ _Please_ ,” Sylvain whines, head thrown back against the ground. Dimitri’s teeth are sharp against his jugular, teasing and worrying another bruise along his throat. “ _Fuck_ , Dimitri, I—”

“Don’t come.” Dimitri’s voice is hot against his ear, command so low that Sylvain has no choice but to obey. It’s a blessing that Dimitri’s body stills on top of him, only the heat left to drive Sylvain mad. “I still have to fuck you, remember?”

“Then hurry _up_ ,” Sylvain snaps, laden with desperation. His hand pushes against Dimitri’s shoulders. “You have to—”

“Oh, I’ve imagined this often enough to know,” Dimitri says, palms sliding hot against the inside of Sylvain’s thighs. He lifts them slowly, almost gently, pressing both of Sylvain’s knees together and locking his ankles over Dimitri’s shoulders. He bites idly at the swell of one calf, rubbing stubble against the curve of Sylvain’s ankle. “Are you alright?”

Sylvain nods, shaky but honest. He shudders when he feels the blunt head of Dimitri’s cock pressing just above his balls, unrelenting and hot as freshly forged steel. Then: “Yes,” he says, because Dimitri seems to like it when he says things out loud.

Dimitri presses in achingly slowly, the slick from his cock soothing just enough to keep Sylvain from burning. He rocks forward in little thrusts, panting against Sylvain’s leg where it twitches against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips jostles Sylvain’s balls, the delicate flesh of his thighs, his swollen cock where it lies trapped between his belly and legs.

Once Dimitri is convinced that Sylvain is okay—once Sylvain begins whining, head thrashing against the dirt and reaching desperately for Dimitri’s arms—he begins to thrust faster, harder. His arms are wrapped tight around the clench of Sylvain’s thighs, just below his knees as he hoists Sylvain _up_ , angling his thrusts to slide his cockhead against the swell of Sylvain’s balls and the heated base of his cock. It jars them both, wringing a broken moan from Sylvain as Dimitri groans above him.

Sylvain struggles to find purchase against the ground, both hands flat on the dirt as Dimitri’s manhandles him and bends him almost in two. Seeing Dimitri like this—face flushed with pleasure, sweat dripping from his brow—makes something foreign rise in Sylvain’s chest, softer than the unbearable arousal that coils tight in his belly. It’s easier to ignore it with Dimitri’s cock sliding hot and filthy between his thighs, but it _persists_ , settling in like a kitten to a furred blanket.

Sylvain feels himself begin to shudder, wide-eyed and hazy, Dimitri’s own thrusts growing urgent. Dimitri presses Sylvain’s thighs tighter together, a sheath for his cock, and Sylvain _takes_ it, has no choice but to bear it, head thrown back and eyes half-crossed and entirely at the mercy of his king. “Dimitri,” he cries, tongue thick in his mouth. “Dimitri, Dimitri—”

Dimitri shudders and shakes, mouth hanging open as he groans loud and long. Teeth find Sylvain’s calf and bite, sharp and sweet, and Sylvain feels Dimitri come, feels the thick ribbons of his release coat his thighs, his stomach, the desperate heat of his own cock.

“Please, Dimitri, I need—I need—” He’s babbling now, a mess of a man, shattered beneath the body of his king.

“I know what you need,” growls Dimitri, and he _does_ , still thrusting between Sylvain’s thighs, slicking them with his own spend. “Can you come like this? Just like this, Sylvain, just for me.”

Sylvain wails, the pressure building below his navel until he can feel himself spiraling, rapid and overwrought, utterly blank but for the orgasm that takes him. It courses through him in waves, cresting as Dimitri stills above him, softening cock pressed against Sylvain’s own.

Slowly, and with more tenderness than Sylvain expects, Dimitri lowers Sylvain’s legs to the ground. They’re sticky with sweat and with come, dirt already sticking in ugly patches to the damp of his thighs, but it feels _good_ , to stretch and arch and catch his breath. When Sylvain opens his eyes, Dimitri is at his side, a solemn smile on his face that almost reaches his eyes.

He’s nervous, Sylvain realizes.

Sylvain snorts a laugh, reveling in the ache that settles into his bones. He’ll be sore tomorrow, he knows, and he would bet his inheritance that Dimitri has left bruises beyond the confines of his clothes. Still, he looks at Dimitri and says, “You’re a mess,” because he is, all disheveled hair and mismatched eyes and blood smeared across his cheek. That pesky cat of a feeling grows stronger, stretching as though waking from a nap, and Sylvain will deal with it _later_ , always later.

“You’re not much better,” says Dimitri, eyes soft around the edges. “How are you feeling?”

“Like the Savior King kicked my ass and then fucked my thighs,” Sylvain says, teasing. “So, you know. Pretty good.” He can’t meet Dimitri’s eyes when he says it, but he means it, and surely Dimitri isn’t so dense as to think he’s lying. Not after they’ve fucked like animals in the dirt.

Thankfully, Dimitri grins, a bit of the tension melting from his shoulders. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” he says. Then, with a sly smile: “You are as good as they say, Sylvain Gautier.”

Sylvain colors even as he laughs, embarrassment only skin-deep. “Glad I can live up to my reputation,” he says. “Took me long enough to build it.”

Shyly, Dimitri says, “I imagine you’ll continue to live up to it.” It’s a question, Sylvain realizes—the nerves are back, creased between Dimitri’s brows and along the corners of his eyes. “If—that is. If you would like.”

“Ask me again in the morning,” Sylvain says, heartbeat fluttering uncontrollably. “Let me bask for a moment.”

Dimitri nods, all obedience. “As you wish,” he says. “But you should know. I—am fond of you. I said it earlier, but it bears repeating, because I’m afraid that you do not understand the gravity of what I’m saying. What I’m—confessing.”

If Dimitri says one more word, Sylvain is going to erupt into flames on the spot. “I know,” he murmurs, voice as level as he can make it. “Trust me, I know. And we’ll talk, alright? But—”

“In the morning,” Dimitri agrees. “For now, you may bask.”

The smile that splits Sylvain’s face is silly, almost content. “Thank you, your Highness,” he says, watching Dimitri out of the corner of his eye. “That’s sweet of you.”

“Please, Sylvain, I’ve told you to call me—”

“Dimitri. I know.” He grins. “Looks like you’ll have to teach me another lesson.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [frog](https://twitter.com/oversized_frog), who claimed one of my donation commission spots!
> 
> if you'd like, you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/nishtabel). 


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